


What Are We but Human

by wonder_womans_ex



Category: Relic Keel - lumosinlove
Genre: Don't @ Me, Inspired by Relic Keel - lumosinlove, M/M, THERE ARE WORDS IN THIS FIC, Words, and kisses, and that's okay, i have no idea what this is, lint - Freeform, silver and gold analogies, what a novel concept, yes I am writing fic for a ship that has like 2.5 canononical interactions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-16 14:20:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29577411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wonder_womans_ex/pseuds/wonder_womans_ex
Summary: Saint has never loved before. Not really. Not like this.
Relationships: Luke Deveaux/Saint (lumosinlove)
Kudos: 2





	What Are We but Human

Every story has a beginning and a middle. 

Luke knows this. He’s lived through it; he’s been taught it. He’s also been taught that every story has an end, too, but he knows from personal experience that this is very rarely true. 

The best and the worst stories never end. 

It’s only the mediocre ones that do. It’s only the ones that leave your mind as soon as the last page is turned. The best stories—and the worst—are the ones that leave you thinking _why_ and _but only_ and _what if._

Those are the stories Luke likes best.

Because there’s a place in his heart for nightmares and fear and endless boredom. There’s a part of him that aches to be hurt; he needs pain like he needs air if he’s going to keep on waking up in the morning. 

Maybe that’s why the person he’s sitting across from isn’t Remus or James or even Sirius Black—because Remus is wisdom and James is resistance and Sirius is anger. 

And Saint isn’t any of those things. Or maybe he’s all of them—Luke hasn’t quite figured that out yet. 

Saint is quick. He always has been. His tongue is quick to insult; his eyes are quick to notice; his fingers are quick as they drum on the table. Luke isn’t sure why they’re there, and he’s not going to ask. 

It would be fruitless, though, to wait for Saint to tell him, so he leans back in his chair. He’s aiming for nonchalance, but he knows Saint can see right through him. They’re the only ones in the house, and being alone with Saint has never given Luke cause to feel anything but fear. 

No, not quite fear. Recklessness—the need to do something stupid. He loves and hates it at the same time. 

The thought crosses his mind that maybe this is how Saint feels all the time, and it’s just rubbing off on him. Are bad decisions contagious? 

They must be, because opening his mouth to do something other than take a swig of his root beer is probably the most stupid thing Luke has ever done in his life. 

“There’s a theory,” he says, knowing he should stop talking—put down the metaphorical shovel before he digs any deeper—but not seeming to be able to, “that the universe is constantly expanding. That infinity is larger now than it was last week, or yesterday, or even ten seconds ago.” 

Saint looks up at him through his eyelashes. He arches one eyebrow, halfway between curious and skeptical. “Why are you telling me this?” 

“Because infinity is infinity—because if something never stops, it only makes sense that it would never stop not stopping.”

“I think you lost me around the same time you started talking, Tweedle.”

No-nonsense. He doesn’t get it. How can someone like Saint, someone wild and free and dangerous, be so down-to-earth, so poingnant, when he needs to be? 

Luke skips the bullshit. He doesn’t know where all that talk of infinity came from and he doesn’t know if he cares. His hands curl into fists under the table, nails digging into his palms. He takes a breath and decides, _fuck this._ He decides _I won’t be a coward. I won’t._

“Have you ever loved someone you shouldn’t?” 

***

Saint never has been one for silver. No, Saint likes gold—glittering and malleable and surprisingly cool to the touch. 

It goes with his hair. It goes with his personality. It goes with his unquenchable desire to be the best. Gold doesn’t blend in, and neither does Saint. 

Maybe that’s why it’s so surprising—to him, at least, but he knows he could have seen it coming from miles away if he really, truly tried—that of all the people in his world, it was Luke Deveaux who caught his eye. Luke is the dull gleam of silver. He’s harsh and unrelenting. And, when he bites the corner of his lip and meets Saint’s gaze, the look in his chocolate-brown eyes is inexplicably warm. 

That might be why it hurts so much to have to say, “I don’t know if I’ve ever loved anyone at all.” 

He watches as something in Luke crumbles. He watches as Luke breaks. 

And then he watches as Luke picks up the pieces and shoves them back together. 

_A survivor,_ Saint thinks to himself. _I like survivors._

Luke smiles. He tilts his head to one side. 

“Want to learn how?” 

When he inhales, it’s like Saint’s lungs are filling with air for the first time. His vision tunnels to the boy in front of him; all he can see is Luke with his coffee-brown hair and his eyes that hold the universe and his faint half-grin and the dimple that Saint is now close enough to see. 

Saint has never loved before. Not really. Not like this. 

But maybe Luke—bruised and battered and trying-to-heal Luke, Luke the God whom he tried so hard to hate, Luke who can take a punch like nobody’s business—will be able to change that. 

***

Luke watches as the pink of Saint’s tongue flickers out over his lips. If he didn’t know better, he would label it as _nervous_ , but he knows that Saint doesn’t get nervous. Saint gets hesitant; Saint gets terrified. 

There’s no in between. 

He hopes this is the latter. He can deal with Saint being scared of him—after all, when have they _not_ been scared of each other; or at least scared of what the other’s presence brings—but hesitant? Hesitant means he’s offered something Saint can’t accept. Hesitant means that somewhere in all the taking, Luke has forgotten what it means to give. 

But then Saint swallows. “I think,” he begins, and then stops. 

Luke waits. 

“I think,” Saint says again, “I’d like that very much.” 

***

They’re kissing. 

Saint has no idea how they came to be pressed together against the wall, hands tangled in hair and cupped around cheeks, lips practically locked in battle, emotions overflowing like he’s never felt before—he’s crying, isn’t he; they both are—and he thinks to himself, _if this isn’t love, I can’t imagine what is._   
  


***

Luke doesn’t know much. What he does know is this: 

Saint is kissing him. 

Saint is everything. 

This may be a beginning, and it may be a middle, but it sure as hell isn’t an end. 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!
> 
> come say hi to me on tumblr: [wonder-womans-ex](https://wonder-womans-ex.tumblr.com/)
> 
> asks are always open :)


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